


Forsaken Territory

by autumnstwilight (sewohayami)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Gen, Regret, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29216673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewohayami/pseuds/autumnstwilight
Summary: Deep in the abandoned wastes of former Niflheim territory, Weskham Armaugh waits for fellow Hunters to join him on a mission to retrieve the Empire's food cloning technology. He's surprised to be greeted by a familiar face, that of another advisor to the Lucian royal family. When their mission inevitably runs into trouble, the two men must fight for their lives, and face their regrets past and present.Art by mementomoryo
Relationships: Weskham Armaugh & Ignis Scientia
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20
Collections: World of Ruin Big Bang





	Forsaken Territory

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this fic was generously provided by mementomoryo! Please visit them at  
> Twitter: [@CCronshaw](https://twitter.com/CCronshaw)  
> Tumblr: [mementomoryo](https://mementomoryo.tumblr.com)  
> Instagram: [mementomoryo](https://www.instagram.com/mementomoryo/)
> 
> Thank you to both mementomoryo and MathClassWarfare for beta reading!

There was only so much that could be done with canned meat.

Weskham sighed, adjusting his usual recipe so that the addition of corned beef wouldn’t overwhelm it with salt. Less stock, and more spices to make up for the resulting loss in flavor. Ah, but spices were strictly rationed, and in any case, they could do little for the texture.

Neither could they perk up wilted vegetables. He twiddled the knob on the camping stove, trying to take the temperature down to a simmer, but it threatened to flicker out when he turned it too low. Far less precise than his own kitchen. But perhaps it was better to get it done quickly, anyway. When he stood on the hard stone of the haven for too long, the bullet wound in his leg began to gnaw as if it were trying to dig deeper even now.

The wasteland howled around him, and he was grateful for the dimly glowing circle of stone that kept the daemons at bay. He wasn’t much for running, hadn’t been since the injury, and the years had caught up to him since. But he could still fight if he had to, and since the night fell, everyone who could fight, had to.

At least his present company gave him some confidence. Sania Yeager was a scientist first and foremost, with an uncompromising personality, but she fought like The Fierce himself. Perhaps it was all that knowledge of animal anatomy that allowed her knives to carve her quarry with such precision, slicing tendons and opening arteries, spilling guts across the ground. His own butchering ability began and ended at dead meat, the reason his handgun remained holstered at his side.

According to her contacts, there would be two more stopping by the haven this evening. Few Hunters ventured this far out, so close to the old Niflheim border. They had to be on a mission, but Sania didn’t know what it might be either. Rather, she seemed more determined to strong-arm the new arrivals into assisting with their goal— the retrieval of Niff cloning technology, which had been used to feed the masses once Shiva’s glacial corpse had iced over much of their former farmland. He hoped they knew what they were getting into.

And so, he stretched their rations to make what would hopefully be soup for four. Sania had ventured to the nearby waterhole, ostensibly to refill their canteens, but likely also to examine any pond life clinging on.

The grimy grey of the clouds overhead darkened even further, the transition to true night. He was beginning to wonder if their company would arrive at all when two figures emerged from the frozen desert. A tall man, clad in black, accompanied by a teenager. They ascended the haven in a worn and weary silence.

“Welcome, lads,” he said, pushing a bowl of soup into the youth’s hands. “Make yourselves comfortable, and eat up.”

The teenager slumped gratefully into a vacant camping chair, staring into his soup as though he were working up the energy to eat. The man turned in the direction of his voice, and spoke.

“Weskham. It’s been a long time.”

He recognized then the face partially hidden under the dark visor.

“Well, if it isn’t the royal advisor! You’ve done well to make it this far out.”

“I manage,” he responded, straightening his coat, the same military-salvage that Weskham wore, along with most of the other Hunters. Weskham moved to assist Ignis.

“There’s a vacant chair to your left— here— and I’ve prepared soup for dinner.”

“Thank you kindly,” he answered with a nod, voice worn down by fatigue. “Talcott?”

“Ah! Thank you very much for the meal.” He scrambled to his feet, offering the hand that didn’t contain a half-eaten bowl of soup. “Name’s Talcott Hester. We’re here to search the Magitek Research Facility for documents concerning a certain research subject. Dave suggested we rendezvous with another group out here but…” He hesitated, glances back at Ignis. “Seems you already know each other.”

“We’re acquainted,” replied Ignis, from near the fire. Weskham grinned.

“How things have changed since the last time I saw you! You’re recovering well then?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. And how have you fared?”

“Well enough,” he responded, and any more he might have had to say was cut off by Sania’s arrival.

“Well, I see you boys finally decided to show up. No time like the present, I suppose. I’m sure you all understand how important the food supply is in times like these, and I am counting on your help to get that cloning equipment back to Lucis.”

Talcott looked between Sania and Ignis in what seems to be mild panic, and started,

“Uh, ma’am? We’re actually on our own mission to—”

He was silenced by Ignis holding up a hand.

“We’re hoping to secure certain documents from the facility. That said, once we have those in hand, it would only make sense to assist in the salvage of other equipment.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear! You and your friends were a great aid to my research back in Lucis. I’m always appreciative of good assistants.”

With that she turned to the camping stove and began assessing the soup. Weskham took a sip of his own. He caught Talcott’s whisper of  _ Assistants? _ but Ignis’s response was discreetly inaudible.

He grabbed Sania’s attention with another bowl of soup, and she took it, but no sooner had she lifted the spoon than she launched into a full report of her excursion to the pond. Weskham nodded, the details were rather beyond him, but it was good to hear about any species on Eos still eking out survival. He was soon acquainted with the five species of algae still growing, some adapting marvelously to the low-light conditions. Having nothing to contribute to the discussion, he occupied his own mouth with dinner between nods and interested noises.

Eventually Sania turned back to her own soup, now half-cold. Weskham heard murmurs from across the campsite— Ignis and Talcott trading whispers. Sania raised an eyebrow and he shook his head.

“Royal business, I think”

“Pah. The only royal around is gone, so now it’s everyone’s business. The more heads the better, is what I say.”

She sawed into a gristly piece of meat with the side of her spoon, but didn't intervene. Weskham listened more closely, and Talcott’s higher voice carried further.

“...if they were the ones who discovered Ardyn…”

_ Ardyn. _ Weskham had turned an ear to the gossip from behind his bar, but had to admit he knew little about the so-called Chancellor of the former Niflheim Empire, except that he had seemed to do little during its reign but had a sizable hand in its downfall. And perhaps that he was more involved than he appeared to be with Niflheim’s daemonology and the production of their Magitek troopers.

What he did know is that, when he had rushed to offer assistance at a former Altissian hotel turned field hospital, he had encountered a young man with cruel burns across his eyes, muttering the chancellor’s name in his sleep with a desperate outburst of breath. It still angered him when he thought of it. That such a do-nothing bureaucrat, whoever he was, could have taken the sight from a promising young fellow without remorse.

_ Still, look at him now, _ he thought, as Ignis turned his head to reply to Talcott. It was no mean feat to fight one’s way out into the wastes of Niflheim territory uninjured, and a marvel to do it with no vision at all. It filled him with a kind of shame, a second guessing of second guessing. His own life had strayed far from its original course, and every now and again the wondering wormed its way back into his mind— would a better man have stayed with Regis?

He poked dolefully at the dregs of his soup. There was no point in wondering.

There was minimal chatter as they lay out their bedrolls for sleep, and the distant rumble of ever-present storm clouds lulled him.

In the morning, they made a cache of supplies at the haven, and set off carrying only the necessities for their mission. Now and then the wind picked up, and snow flurried around them, not fresh precipitation but stale flakes picked up from the drifts of the ice desert. The cold was piercing. The howls of daemons carried across the wasteland, and they went far out of their way to cut a wide circle around the worst of them, but they could not evade the skittering imps, nor the assorted horrors that rose from the ground beneath them. Even so, they made reasonably good time, within the window allotted by their plans. The quicker their journey, the more time on hand to explore the facility.

The facility, which would likely be full of even more daemons. He fed a moon clip into his revolver, trying to ration bullets. His arm was not as steady as it once had been.

It was not long before the white of the mountains gave way to the grey steel of armored doors, left ajar from when the MTs had been released en-masse, a carpet of powder snow blown down the entry hall. The electromagnets intended to hold the latches in place were dead, and from the look of the dark corridors, scintillating with the tiny flicker of warning LEDs, the power supply was on its last legs. Their torches led them deeper.

There was little in there, even daemons, though the cold creak of steel crawled its way up his spine each time the mountain shifted. They reached what seemed to be a control room, and after exploring the side passages for a certain distance, determined that the most likely way into the central laboratory was through the blast doors. Picking through the dusty controls revealed another problem, announced after more hushed chatter between Talcott and Ignis.

“Fail-safe,” sighed Talcott.

“What do you mean?” Weskham asked, in the bobbing torchlight. Ignis responded.

“Unlike the other remnants of Niflheim’s technology, which are decidedly fail- _ deadly _ , it appears the door is designed so that the hydraulic system and its own weight will force it closed in the event of a power outage. A curious place to uniquely employ the design philosophy.”

Talcott nodded. “We’re not going to be able to get it open unless we can power up the hydraulics.”

Sania peered over his shoulder.

“And can you do that?”

“I think so. I’ll have to divert power from somewhere else though… Light field generators?”

“Sounds like something we can scavenge,” said Weskham, and Talcott grinned. Any form of industrial lighting was in high demand to ward daemons away from settlements.

“Two frogs with one bucket,” agreed Sania, who refused to use the version of the phrase about birds and stones. Talcott chuckled, typing something into the console.

“Just waiting for it to reboot. It should come online in three, two, one…”

The blast doors creaked as they began to lift. The hall beyond was lined in steel plating, higher and wider than any of the corridors they had passed through on the way in, rails on the floor and walls for moving shipping containers. It had apparently remained sealed all this time, the interior appeared pristine, and even the dust was thinner. No daemons, no magitek. Weskham breathed out, let his shoulders relax a little. At least this short part of their journey would be easy.

Ahead of him, Talcott was describing the surroundings to Ignis, who was leaning in, head tilted, mouth pulled down at the corner. He raised his voice to speak to the group.

“Proceed with caution.”

“Why?” asked Sania.

“Because whatever is in here, they decided it needed to stay sealed even if the rest of the facility failed.”

His voice echoed slightly from the metal walls, then a silence fell over the group. They proceeded grimly. A few hundred meters down the shaft, they were approaching a junction equipped with what appeared to be a large cargo elevator when the surroundings lit up red. The flash subsided, leaving the wall ahead of them molten and glowing.

“Back, back!” Weskham shouted.

“Even I saw that!” Ignis exclaimed, above their rushed footsteps, “What— “

“Deathclaw!” cried Talcott.

The daemon rounded the corner, its carapace making a horrible scrape on metal. The second blast hit where Sania had been a moment before— her machete was already drawn, hacking into the creature’s leg. Weskham emptied his revolver into its glowing eyes, dim targets in the mask between its hunched shoulders. Ignis had leapt— there was a metal clash as his spear came down on the daemon’s back.

The claws lashed out, gouging deep into the steel plating with the ease of a chef’s knife through flesh, leaving glowing trails in their wake. The core spun again, and they scrambled aside as another blast lit the corridor. He had barely caught his balance when they were once again pushed backwards by a series of furious swipes.

“Damn thing’s fast,” he grunted between gunshots.

Ignis had leapt from the daemon’s back onto the floor behind it, dodging the thrashing of its tail. He threw his spear, launching it into part of the shoulder joint, before summoning his daggers into his now empty hands. Flames erupted from the blades, bright in the dim tunnel, reflected light dancing on the steel walls. His strikes landed true, each one with a renewed burst of flame. The armor cracked under the heat and pressure, and a segmented leg fell to the floor, sizzling before it disintegrated. The daemon screeched and wheeled, the great swipe of its tail forcing Sania to retreat from her attack, before striking Talcott. His body thudded against the wall, but before Weskham could reach him, he had already staggered to his feet.

“You alright, kid?”

Talcott nodded, face bloodied from a cut on his forehead, and likely bruised besides. No time to tend to injuries. Weskham aimed his revolver back at the bulk of the creature, hoping that some of the bullets would hit where its carapace was cracked, though it was far too dark to aim at such. Ahead, the glow of Ignis’s blades lit the corridor as he danced among the claws, always evading by the breadth of a knife edge.

“Your friend is quite mad, I’m afraid,” Weskham muttered in disbelief. Talcott grinned.

“Isn’t he?”

He had no opportunity to respond. Sania had forced her machete into a crack on the daemon’s body, prising at the shell, and in doing so had called its attention back in their direction. The creature wheeled again, even as Ignis shouted and threw his daggers into its back. It staggered forward, legs missing, dripping black blood and innards, still lashing out with furious speed. He stumbled, and that was all it took. The claws caught his leg and tore through.

He didn’t think that he had screamed, just that the air had been forced from him, and yet he sensed that the others had turned his way. Not for long— they mounted a final assault, blades flashing, fire roaring, until the creature slumped with a spear through its back and a machete lodged in its core. It began to dissolve immediately. They pushed the crumbling limbs aside to run to him.

He managed to grit his teeth and silence his voice, but he couldn’t stop his body from shaking, or his breath spilling out in pained gasps. Moving was unthinkable. The others leaned over him, and Sania turned her torch to inspect his leg.

“Messy,” was her assessment. She took a wad of folded cloth that Talcott handed to her, and put agonizing pressure on the ragged flesh. “Go back into the control room— find something I can use as a splint.” The boy darted off.

“How bad?” asked Ignis.

“He won’t be walking home, that’s for sure,” she replied. “It’s badly fractured, and that’s on top of the laceration.” She paused. “If we get him help quickly, he might get to keep his foot.”

“Let’s hope for that then,” Weskham gritted out, and no one voiced the obvious— that they were about as far from “help” as it was possible to be, not only deep into the frozen mountains of Niflheim, but deep underneath them as well. He panted, watching his blood soak through the cloth and onto the floor. Talcott returned with scavenged strips of metal, and Sania set about fashioning a splint for his mangled leg. Ignis put a hand on Talcott’s shoulder.

“Scout ahead and see if you can find a rest area or infirmary. Be cautious, and return at the first sign of danger.”

The boy nodded, and set off at a jog. Sania tapped Ignis on the wrist, over the leather of his glove.

“I’ll need you to hold his leg straight, and perhaps hold him down,” she instructed, guiding his hands. Weskham had returned to himself enough to know that he was screaming this time, and the agony went on far too long before she deemed the splint secure. The pain receded into a merely horribly throbbing ache, and he sat dazed and simply trying to endure until Talcott returned, out of breath and hands on his knees.

“Up ahead— MTs in the corridors— can’t get through. I checked out— the elevator— looks like it goes— to the surface.”

The other two listened grimly. Ignis was the first to speak.

“I can’t guarantee this will work, but the hunters have made efforts to keep cell towers operational, and even to repurpose other transmitters as relays. If we can get to the surface, and there is a signal…” He withdrew his own phone from his pocket. “Aranea Highwind should be stationed near the Ueltham Outpost, or perhaps patrolling this very area. We will need to beg for her airship.”

"Sounds like a plan," Weskham gasped.

Meanwhile, Talcott had ventured nearer to the cargo elevator, but when he investigated more closely, he cursed in a way that made Ignis purse his lips.

"Control panel's busted," he explained, returning to the group. "The deathclaw melted it to slag. But the floor lights are still on. If I can get up to the surface, I should be able to ride it down. Then we can get him out."

With Titan-knows-what on the floors in between?” Sania interjected, “You can’t go that far alone.”

“Two scouts will have to be sufficient,” said Ignis.

“It will have to be,” Sania agreed, “I can trust you to stay here?”

It was the first time that Weskham had seen Ignis look momentarily lost.

“I—”

“We’ll split up like this. Talcott and I will search for a route. You’ll stay here to observe Weskham’s condition and make sure nothing else down here gets him.” 

“I think that makes the most sense,” said Talcott, his voice betraying a slight hesitance. Ignis’s jaw tensed, as though he were used to giving orders on these expeditions rather than taking them.

“I think that a skilled fighter—”

“Should stay with the person who can’t defend himself,” insisted Sania, jabbing a finger into Ignis’s chest.

“She’s talking sense,” Weskham managed. Outvoted, Ignis made a slight movement that might have been the equivalent of a less reserved man throwing his hands up in defeat.

“Very well,” he said at last, “Move swiftly.” He handed over his phone as though it were a priceless artifact. “Make the call as soon as you are able.”

Talcott nodded, slipping the phone into his own pocket. Sania moved to his side, walking slightly ahead of him, their footsteps echoing faintly down the metal hall until they were out of sight.

That left him with Ignis, who bristled in the darkness like a wary cat. Distant hisses and clanks sounded from other parts of the facility, and he tilted his head as though attempting to pinpoint them. His fingers twitched around the hilt of an imaginary dagger, one that could become lethally real at any moment.

He did not give off the air of a welcoming conversation partner, but having few other options to distract himself from the pain, Weskham tried anyway.

“Worse than the time the Regalia ran out of gas in Leide.”

Ignis raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Regis was sure we could make it one more town. Ended up pushing it half a mile, drowning in our own sweat.”

Fabric rustled before the reply came.

“We encountered a similar setback ourselves.” The tone was wistful, with the amusement that mild hardships gain with the distance of time.

“Did you now?”

“With the benefit of hindsight, I suspect the delay to our journey was orchestrated. Such a machine does not simply break down from a little desert sand.”

“Ah.” Weskham would have been lying if he said he knew what Regis was thinking after so many years, but the prince he had known would not have been against underhanded methods for a good cause.

“We managed to get her to Hammerhead. Cid assisted us with the repairs. For a price, of course.”

“Naturally,” Weskham said, with a chuckle that came out half-wheezed. “Good to hear he hasn’t gone soft in his old age.”

“Rather the opposite, I’d say,” Ignis agreed, tapping gloved fingers against the steel wall.

“He never coddled Reggie either.”

At this, Ignis’s expression became pensive, and he hesitated before his next words.

“Forgive me. I’ve never thought to ask… Assuming that you wish to speak of it…”

“Lad, what do you want to know?”

“We share some common ground, I suppose. It’s hard to imagine, but when you travelled with him, Regis must have been about the same… About the same age as…Well...” Something like anguish flickered in the momentary crease of Ignis’s brow.

“What are you again? Twenty-five?” he asked, to spare him from finishing that sentence.

“Twenty-seven come February.”

“Ahh,” He leaned back, “Not much older than I was back then.”

“What was he like?”

Weskham gave an exhausted half-shrug.

“You probably knew him for more years than I did, all said and done.”

“Nevertheless, I have difficulty imagining His Majesty as a young man.”

“I suppose.” Weskham shifted again, finding the new position as uncomfortable as the last. “He was… a bit more confident than yours, I guess. Seemed sure we were going to end the war when we set out. It was a great disappointment for him, and probably a turning point, come to think of it.”

“The world outside the Walls is far more complex than one imagines,” mused Ignis, rolling his shoulders until the joints popped audibly.

“He had some anger in him back then. I guess all young men do when they thirst for justice. But he was kind, above all things. He would have sacrificed anything for his people.”

“Indeed,” Ignis replied, a bitterness in his tone that surprised Weskham, but which he gave no explanation for. He sighed, exhaling through his nose.

“We all would have. The nation— the world— is nothing without its people. No point in reigning over ashes and dust. I don’t regret what I sacrificed to serve him, even now.”

Ignis fell silent, as though he were considering.

The flickering in the hall taunted them with shadows that could take form at any moment. Tension hung in the air like a razor wire concealed by the dark. He spoke again to break it.

“She your girl?”

Ignis’s eyebrows lifted for a moment before he responded.

“You mean Aranea? She’s an ally, nothing more.”

Weskham made a noise then, shifting to get more comfortable, and Ignis seemed to take it as doubt.

“I assure you that pursuing romance has been the furthest thing from my mind,” he said, voice defensive, and Weskham raised a hand.

“Of course, of course,” he said, and Ignis seemed to settle slightly. His fingers tapped against his knee, as if he were full of a frustrated energy even after their earlier battle. When the silence began to drag again, it was him that moved to fill it.

“Besides,” he said, with a laugh that toed the line between careless and brittle, “I imagine my days of wooing anyone are behind me.”

Weskham paused, a little hazy from bloodloss and trying to figure out how to respond tactfully.

“You sure won’t be the only one with scars when this is all over. Don’t count yourself out just yet.”

“I suppose,” replied Ignis in a tone that suggested he’d rather bury that line of conversation. Yet it seemed to give him the confidence for his own inquisition.

“If I may pry further then, what was it that caused you to leave King Regis’s retinue?”

“Niff bullet went right through my leg. Same one, in fact,” Weskham said wryly. “Could barely stand on my own two feet, let alone fight. They’d have had to carry me home, and with the legions on the Lucian mainland, it’d have put them at risk. I  _ was _ his advisor. I advised him against it. So I stayed in Accordo, learning how to walk again.”

He gritted his teeth, not relishing the thought of the recovery ahead of him now. Once had been bad enough, and he had been a younger man back then.

“That was when I met Camellia. She’d say she recruited me, but I’d say she gave me the chance to fight for something important. The feeling that something I did mattered.”

“And he let you go?” Ignis asked, with a pointed tilt of his head.

“Regis was… kind about it.”

Weskham recalled his prince’s sad eyes when he had requested permission to stay in Altissia. Home was half a war-torn world away, and he could only be a burden on the battlefield, he argued. With their mission failed, it was imperative that the prince return there quickly, and safely.

Perhaps Regis hadn’t seen it like that. Perhaps he felt he’d lost not only an opportunity, but a friend who he had failed to protect. And perhaps that was why he hadn’t felt he had the right to argue, to reach out, to order Weskham to stay.

He’d seen a shadow of that in Regis’s son, though the son himself had become something of a shadow after the disaster at the altar. He’d watched the boy wince when he looked at Ignis’s scars, and wondered if Regis had done the same when he wasn’t looking. But the same understanding had weighed upon them all— unspoken but undeniable. Their journey had been for naught. There were no choices left.

“Back then, the people…”

He recalls the fear in the towns they had passed through, once shining and prosperous, transforming as Niflheim pushed forward toward Insomnia. Homes and stores bore boarded windows and shattered roofs, farmlands were scarred by bomb blasts. And so they sent their futures, their youth, to the Crown City, to join the Glaive and return bearing even a mote of the Crystal’s light to defend their hometowns. Young men and women scattered to the four winds, thrown into the war machine, many never to return. It had all been in vain. Altissia did not rejoin the alliance. Niflheim could not be repelled. Down the Wall had come, pulled back to Insomnia’s ramparts, in spilled the daemons, and the refugees fled until there was nowhere left to flee. Keycatrich, the Prairie Outpost, back to the solid-sealed gates of Insomnia. He had tracked the spreading calamity through the reports on the radio. He could only imagine what Regis and the others had seen on their return journey.

Thirty years later, his son had traveled those same lands. Had he noticed how empty they were? Or had he enjoyed the quiet breeze across the open plains, unaware of the bones buried beneath the peace? In the end, he could only have known what Regis told him.

“They counted on us to keep them safe. And we let them down.”

“I understand,” Ignis said, quietly. And Weskham supposed that he would, having come to the same end, merely separated by three decades— wounded in Altissia, his King’s mission lying shattered around him.

But at that turning point, Ignis hadn’t stayed behind. Weskham had welcomed him to Maagho with open arms, to remain behind the front lines and work intelligence and espionage, sitting by the radio. He hadn’t even considered the idea before scoffing, and returning to pacing down the hall, with all appearances of confidence except for the counting of footsteps under his breath.

Now there was just the confidence. If he had any doubt about his movements, he showed no hesitation, no matter how painful failure might be. Or perhaps he prefered the pain of a fall or collision to standing frozen in fear of those things.

Weskham had seen that courage, that recklessness, whatever it was, in their fight with the deathclaw. And it showed again when daemons emerged from the dark corridor, lured by human sounds or scents or perhaps the warmth of their bodies. The pack of bussemands closed in, shuffling. Ignis kept just out of reach, darting in close to deliver quick, fatal slices. Now and then he tossed a dagger with formidable accuracy, trusting in his king’s magic to return it to him.

“Nothing too difficult,” he announced to the dissolving corpses, and returned to Weskham’s side, settling into a crouch and toying with a dagger.

“You think so?” Weskham said, with a weak laugh. “I’d be impressed even if you weren’t— you know.”

“You can say it,” chided Ignis, mildly. He sighed and rocked on his heels, as though impatient. “Noct’s destiny will come for him one way or another. I won’t be able to forgive myself if I haven’t done everything I can.”

“You’re hard on yourself.”

“Who else would be?”

“The whole damn world’s hard on all of us.”

“Exactly why we must be unyielding under the pressure,” said Ignis, twirling his dagger around the back of his hand.

“There’s only so much pressure you can take before you break under it.”

“I don’t intend to break.”

“No one does.”

Ignis’s mouth set in a hard line.

Weskham’s frustration overcame him, and he spoke as though the young man before him were an echo of the past. Was he playing the advisor again, trying to break the hopes of an idealistic king? Or was the man before him a stand-in for his younger self, who had bent so easily under despair?

“Do you think that everyone who fell meant it as a noble sacrifice? That there are no pointless deaths or bitter failures?”

Ignis protested, “If we carry on, then their efforts were not—”

“And you can justify anything just like that?” There was heat in Weskham’s voice, and Ignis almost flinched. “No matter who you leave behind, or what you give up?”

He stopped, took a breath, “It wasn’t as though I intended to give up.” It sounded a weak excuse even as it spilled from his lips.

Ignis bowed his head. “Forgive me. You seem to have managed well despite the circumstances.” 

Weskham sighed, still feeling an implicit judgement. One that dug under his skin all the more since it came from a man with every right to judge him. How, then, could he not?

“I’ve done my best with what I had, we all have. But that doesn’t change the fact that my life was meant to be one thing, and it became something very different. Something I didn’t plan for. Doesn’t matter what I intended.”

“It’s not that I don’t understand. None of this is what I meant to happen. Not when we left Insomnia, not when we arrived in Altissia, and not when I—” He stopped, sucked in air. Again, Weskham filled the silence.

“And we made our journey before the daemons moved in. Wall covered all of Lucis back then. World’s gotten tougher. I don’t envy you boys.”

Ignis leaned back.

“The journey had its share of peril, to be sure, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. There were moments— I’ve never seen Noct happier. Even with his father gone and Insomnia fallen, there were times when we couldn’t help but forget it all and revel in our new-found freedoms. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“Even knowing how it turned out?”

He nodded fiercely.

“Our present state is not mere happenstance. Everything was preordained. If it was always going to end up like this, one way or another, then I am glad for the moments of happiness.”

“I’m surprised you have such faith in the Gods.”

“I am not sure that you would call it ‘faith’,” Ignis said with a sniff.

He trailed off as another pair of imps approached. Again, he eliminated one from a distance, but the other skittered closer in the time that it took, forcing him to block a swipe with his remaining dagger. Claws clattered against metal, then a flash of the blade gutted the daemon. Its corpse disintegrated into miasma. The two men tried not to breathe too deeply.

“Still. You think the Gods planned for us to end up here, like this? Under this damn mountain?”

“No, not in such detail. I do not think they care much for lives in individual terms. Save for one. And then, only because he is their champion.”

“So, what you’re saying is,” Weskham paused to breathe against the pain, “we’re on our own?”

Ignis smiled so slightly that it could have been a trick of the light.

“What I am saying is that they haven’t accounted for us. By our own actions we are doomed or saved. And perhaps by our actions, we can save others. There is much left undecided, even in a world run by divine will.”

Ignis stretched his arms before him again, then halted, expression seizing as though it had caused no small amount of pain. Then again, with how he had thrown himself into battle after battle, it was hardly surprising if he was beginning to feel it. No matter how determined the spirit, flesh retained its limits. 

Weskham blurted, “I’ve never wanted to think it’s all decided. Always wanted to think I could make a difference. But I’ve spent my life fighting, shoulder to shoulder with leaders, and even what those leaders could do was yoked by circumstance. Compromise after compromise, for the sake of not being wiped out completely. And now the world’s fallen apart and we’re all just people, fighting against darkness that wants to rip us to pieces. I’m doing all I can, but frankly, I’m not sure how much of a difference it’s going to make. How much difference I have made. And if things had been different—”

Ignis raised a gloved finger to his lips, and Weskham fell silent, save for sucking air between his teeth as his broken leg throbbed. 

More imps had arrived, along with hobgoblins, and behind them the towering creak of an iron giant. Ignis gritted his teeth.

“You can’t fight all of those.”

“Indeed. Let us retreat.”

With that, Ignis hauled him to his feet. He had tried to be gentle, but his haste and the change in posture made Weskham cry out nonetheless. He shuffled along on one good leg, leaning heavily on Ignis, who hunched under the weight.

“To the left,” he instructed, and they staggered with all the haste permitted to them. He guided Ignis through the winding corridors until they arrived at a dead end, filled with the withered remains of plants. In desperation, he groped along the wall and flipped the circuit breaker— the ceiling lit up in an imitation of sunlight, some panels cracked and broken, but enough to ward the daemons far back. Malicious eyes glinted at them from the very end of the hall before vanishing.

"Should scavenge some of this," he said **,** squinting in the glare.

Ignis was looking around the room, taking in whatever his vision made of the rectangles of light.

"As soon as it is not the only thing keeping us alive."

He listened to Weskham's wheezing, lowering him to the floor.

"Rest here, as much as you can. I imagine we have some time before the others bring the elevator down.”

Weskham nodded grimly. Now that the adrenaline was receding, the thought of hobbling back was almost too much to bear. He curled in on himself, retreating into a bundle of shameful misery. At least his companion couldn't see it. He did not exactly rest, but drifted hazily under the stuttering lights until Ignis cleared his throat.

“It sounds like the daemons have retreated some distance. Let’s make our way back.”

As if to punctuate that statement, there was a great metallic thunk as a swarth of the lights dimmed. The sound of static and sparks echoed as a few struggled against the failing power to reignite. Weskham started, but the terror that should have come was distant and heavy, as though buried under numbing layers of snow. His limbs were shaking.

“Quickly, now.” Ignis offered his hand.

He knew it was the wise decision, but the thought was unbearable, and a childish part of him wanted to throw himself on the ground and refuse to move. He was tired and hurting, and had little thought to spare for anything beside that.

“Perhaps I’ll just stay here a while.”

His words slurred with exhaustion, and he couldn’t help the pathetic note in them.

Ignis turned to him, eyebrows raised. His voice sounded weary.

“Even if I can lead the others back to you— and I’m not confident in that— you’d be in danger in the meantime. Those—” he gestured upwards at the flickering light panels, “could go out at any moment, and you don’t want to be alone when they do.” 

“Look at me.” The words spilled over. “How many more missions do you think this body’s got left in it, even if my leg heals up? I don’t want to die, that’s true, but between you and me— You’ve got determination lad, a strong will. Maybe stronger than I ever was. If one of us gets out of here. I hope it’s you.”

Ignis looked lost, something in his expression set like a stubborn child.

“We came here for reconnaissance, not a battle for our lives. I won’t be returning home one man short. Not for this.”

Weskham coughed, the jolt through his body was agonizing.

“Not for this? What would spur you to leave someone behind?”

“Nothing less than a life for a life is a fair trade.” Pragmatism filled his tone, every part the advisor to a King at war.

“And what if we both die here?”

“We won’t,” Ignis said, with enough force to settle the matter. Weskham’s head swam, he lacked the energy for a prolonged argument, let alone to persuade Ignis to take a different course.

“Very well,” he said, heaving himself up on one foot, and allowing Ignis to pull him the rest of the way, with a grunt of exertion. He had tried not to lean on Ignis before, now he willingly let the other man bear as much of his weight as he was willing to take. They shuffled wearily through the corridors, until a sound like a nail on steel crawled up their spines.

“Faster,” huffed Ignis, dragging him along, his own steps ungainly. Weskham twisted back to see, ignoring Ignis’s grunt as the movement pulled him off-balance.

“MTs,” he hissed in the other man’s ear, Ignis cursed, his trudging steps accelerating further. It was no use. The two of them were fixed by a red glowing gaze, and there was a shriek from a voicebox made of metal. The floor clattered and the corridor echoed with metal footsteps, a brisk and clanging march. Faster than their own procession.

Ignis was breathing heavily, dragging Weskham like an ill-balanced sack, faster than Weskham could keep up with his one good leg and still too slow. There was a deafening clatter, confusion and pain as Weskham was dropped to the floor, echoing, clambering. His hands found the empty MT helmet that Ignis had kicked, tripped on— Ignis was heaving himself up on one knee, and the MTs were upon them.

“Go,” Weskham said, not a shout but a burst of heaved air— “You go— run— while you can.”

“Won’t— leave you behind,” came the equally breathless response.

“I have been!” he cried out, “Left behind— long ago— past my time— I—”

He stopped, tried a different tack.

_ “Your _ king is still alive,” he growled.

Ignis’s sightless gaze faltered, his head twisted toward the exit, neck craning. Then back.

“Come on, man!”

Arm-wrenching, agonizing, pulled onto leaden feet with empty lungs. Weskham’s vision swam. His head rattled with the clash of a MT’s axe where he had just been. He felt the lurch as Ignis stumbled again, cries of pain, he could no longer tell apart their gasping. The metal puppets moved with far more speed and grace than either of them could manage. The elevator was in sight, rectangular lights twinkling at the end of a corridor that might have been a mile long. Didn’t matter. Too slow, too far. The crack of light between the doors must have been a cruel illusion, double vision.

Ignis let out a last gasp as he stumbled forward, lurching, the spear sailing neatly over their heads. They clattered against the floor the MT crashed down behind them, as its brethren hesitated, as a new figure charged forth, taking up the spear and making short work of them. She turned, silver hair tumbling over the shoulders of her padded jacket.

“Aranea Highwind. Now, who am I here to rescue?”


End file.
